A/N: Hey guys, thanks so much for coming back to my story ^.^ I really hope you enjoy this chapter, but I have to tell you it gets a little graphic and gory in places. You have been warned!
Fix You
Tracy Strauss hadn't smoked a cigarette in years. Yet she craved one as badly now as she had while trying to quit for the first time.
Her mind was still reeling from the recent disaster of her first Renautas mission. What a fuck up. It turned out it didn't get easier to swallow with time, and it didn't do anything to ease the symptoms of sleep deprivation after working all through the subsequent night and day.
It was safe to say Tracy was getting more than stir crazy in here.
The sting of another failed mission permeated every particle in this goddamned shoebox of an office. True, it was a rather grand shoebox that happened to be lined with squeaky clean walls and obscenely expensive tech, but there was only so long a girl could stay cooped up in a space that reeked of stress before something had to give. Right now, that something was Tracy's sobriety.
Empty fingers twitching restlessly, she leaned her forehead against the window that spanned the entire height of the wall. She looked out blankly upon the sprawling shadow of Texas, trying to zone out Noah's schmoozing voice from the other side of the room. It was sickly. It was useless. It was just another godawful excuse to buy them time.
"...I understand your concern, Erica, but I can assure you my team have it all under control... Well that's very generous of you, I appreciate it..."
Tracy crossed her arms painfully tight across her chest, as if that could compensate for the ongoing chaos that was by no means 'under control' – by Noah Bennet's team or anyone else's. She could barely hack much more of the man's lies or smooth-talking, and hated how easily it seemed to come to him. Over the hours Tracy had only further come to dislike Bennet's businessman-like demeanor when it came to charming more resources from the boss. Mostly because it got clearer with every 'kindly' smile that Tracy had been suckered into this excuse for a job by the very same (and now very transparent) ruse that Noah was currently using to cover their asses after letting two fugitives escape once again.
He was doing well though, Tracy had to admit. Credit where credit is due and all. Although she suspected this latest Company blunder had significantly been overshadowed by that crackpot in Manhattan nearly ripping the island in half. If one positive had to come out of that disaster, it was that at least Erica Kravid had gotten her finger out and started to take Noah's case seriously. If an evo with even one power could do something so disruptive on their own, what did that say about the threat of Noah's two main obsessions?
Or that was the angle he was playing, anyway.
Tracy huffed and looked out upon the rest of the world, unseen and untouchable from up high in this fortress. It looked so peaceful out there. She couldn't see or hear the riots that were spreading across the entire country, protesting the free reign of evolved humans or the amendments to the soon to be mandatory Evo Registration Act. She couldn't even tell that this whole building was buzzing with another shift on the world's axis. It was all happening though, without a doubt.
"I've got a team over there now closing in on the son of a bitch. We'll have him before dawn..." Noah sang his silky spell into his phone, one rehearsed to perfection after a lifetime invested in the profession of lying.
Actually, Tracy believed him this time. That crazy fucker who tore the street apart yesterday was likely being apprehended this very moment. He wouldn't last long against Renautas – not without the neverending inventory of powers that some fugitives had at their disposal.
He was just a man, after all. A man who had a terrible thing happen to him and didn't know how to control his reaction. It wasn't an impossible scenario. In fact, it was much too close to heart for Tracy's own liking. Really, she couldn't blame the guy for getting so angry at the treatment of his kind.
Their kind.
His anger ran flush through her veins even though they'd never met, and it was enough to make her want to run out on this toxic organisation and never look back. If it wasn't for the promise of status and comfort she'd bargained. Or the fact that she'd finally seen for herself why Renautas were such a crucial part of this brave new world of outed superpowers.
Yes, the evo had a life and a family and his own justifications for going off on one like he had. But he was far too dangerous to be left unchecked. So many of them were, in a way Tracy had never had the incentive to realise until so many people had to get hurt.
A glint of movement in the parking lot far below caught the woman's sharp eyes. She watched, with a knot in her stomach, as a black, windowless van rolled to a stop at the loading dock.
She knew the drill too well, even before watching it all unfold earlier in the day: the driver and passenger doors would open, two agents would stalk to the back of the van and pop the doors, the apprehended fugitive would be lifted from the van, shot with a fresh dose of drugs, and then dragged into the shadowy recesses of the building. The sensations resurfaced from the depths of Tracy's memory, borne from the time she, herself, had once been taken into custody as a prisoner of the Company.
She shivered, a cloud of breath fogging up the window, before she noticed ice creeping a crystal web across the face in her reflection. Quickly she got her ability in check, before her new boss could notice.
"Thank you, Erica. I'll keep you informed."
Noah ended the call behind Tracy just as she recognised the round face and glasses of Renautas' newest captive exiting the van. It wasn't as painful to watch as when Micah Sanders had been brought in half conscious, young, helpless... for a moment she had very nearly quit. Even now it was difficult to turn her back on the sight and let it happen – but Hiro Nakamura (she knew from experience) was just as handy with a right hook as the power to manipulate time. He was far from a harmless young kid.
Tracy briefly shook herself, rocking on bare feet and running her hands through the length of her tired hair for the countless time. It badly needed some attention after spending nearly twenty four hours in this room, but her priorities had long since strayed from suffering her fantastic-but-agonising shoes and maintaining a fresh face of make-up.
Trying hard not to yawn, she left the window to instead drop down at the table that existed somewhere beneath a growing layer of empty coffee cups. "She took it well, then?" Tracy asked pointlessly, attempting to lounge in her chair as much as the uncomfortable, simplistic design would allow.
As soon as his phone was slipped out of sight, Noah Bennet lost all traces of amicability. Now he just looked exhausted, frustrated, a man at the end of his rope who was desperately trying to keep it together. He crossed the room to lean against the window where Tracy had just been. His eyes never once strayed down to the loading bay or its unwitting inhabitant.
"It doesn't even matter. If we don't get our hands on some useful intelligence on Petrelli and Sylar..." Noah's brow was formed into such a heavy frown that it might have shattered the window before his face. "They're out there somewhere." He grumbled to himself, removing his glasses and rubbing at purple bags around his eyes.
Tracy wasn't even going to bother with encouraging words. But if she had been, she would have been rudely interrupted by a panting and sweating Matt Parkman bursting his way, unannounced, into the office.
"N-Noah...!" He gasped, covered head to toe in splashes of paint and looking equally as sleep deprived as his co-workers. Neither of them bothered to look up at his dramatic return.
"Let me guess... you didn't find them?" Tracy drawled. She couldn't get her hopes up. This repeat performance had gotten boring hours ago.
"I've got s-something much more important than that." Panting, the former cop glared daggers at her reclined form. Tracy didn't care. She'd already dealt with too many fragile, inflated egos over her time in politics.
"It better be good news." Noah sighed, returning his famous horn rimmed glasses to their usual perch. Tracy had to admire the way he managed not to sound as totally pissed off and unenthusiastic as she knew he must be by now.
"Not exactly." Catching his breath, Parkman staggered across the office, gesturing a fresh canvas in his hand. He slapped the thing down on the tabletop, sending a stream of empty coffee cups cascading to the floor.
Straightening in her seat, Tracy dubiously squinted at Parkman's latest masterpiece. The paint was still drying as she worked to decipher the brash use of colour and charicature, expecting just another dead end. However, slowly, the image made sense in her mind; the shadows and faces and generous splashes of paint forming itself into something coherent. Something grotesque but invaluable.
Still, it wasn't until Noah's footsteps came to a stop at the back of her chair, a violent stream of air hissing from his nostrils, that Tracy finally believed what she was seeing foretold.
A familiar man. Drenched in red. Hunched over the lifeless form of the other.
( )( )( )
Peter took care to snick the door shut behind him without looking as guilty as he felt. The fluorescent lighting of the corridor was harsh on his eyes after the dimness of the stairwell, but luckily he knew his way around too well for that to slow him down.
Heart hammering, he set off through the winding labyrinth of Mercy Heights hospital while trying not to draw too much attention to himself.
Just act casual. Blend in. Act like you're doing nothing wrong and no one's gonna know... Peter tried to drum these encouragements into himself, but he was far too physched up to play it cool. Every step added weight to his expectantly empty pockets, and every passing second brought him closer to... well, his recently healed ribcage was doing a questionable job of keeping his heart contained, at any rate.
It was the weirdest feeling to be back here again, like re-visiting high school after so much has happened since. Had it really only been a few months? Peter was jittery and jumpy under the pretense of deceit, which probably wasn't helping his ruse much. Unable to possibly feel even guiltier, he didn't look at his own pixelated image branded on repeat over every news station, or meet the eyes of anyone who might possibly put two and two together. He just kept his head down and walked steady, taking a sudden interest in the vending machines whenever nurses or patients or visitors passed him by.
As soon as his destination came into sight, he had to physically stop himself from bolting down the corridor toward it. As it was, he managed to keep a cool head (at least on the outside), until he'd successfully passed the nurses station and slipped inside the welcome reprieve of his trusty old supply closet. Then he finally let himself breathe.
The place still held an air of escape about it. Perhaps if he hadn't been in a hurry he would have taken a moment to simply hide from the world in here, like he'd used to in his first few weeks back in reality. But Peter was under strict instructions, and he didn't want to wait one more minute than was absolutely necessary.
He busied himself in shelves and boxes with the practiced ease of a former nurse. Upon pain of death, he made sure not to forget to grab disposable gloves, and rifled his way through whichever solutions might be strong enough to counteract a particularly resilient superpower...
The clinking of glass bottles and the pounding of his own heart were all Peter could focus on. He was so distracted that he didn't hear movement at the door, or see the figure of a person cross the closet until they rounded the end of his shelf. And near enough gave him a heart attack.
"...Peter?"
Guilt exploded from the empath in the form of a very undignified jump. Panicking, he juggled a handful of bottles while struggling to find his footing, sight, and a hasty excuse all at once! But that last faded away when his mind finally caught up to him. Shit...
"Emma!" He gasped, caught in the headlights of an uneasy gaze. "Hi! ...Uh, what – what're you doing in here?" He babbled breathlessly, hastily stuffing two handfuls of stolen medication into his pockets.
"What are you doing in here?" She didn't look amused, but Peter could hardly blame her. He hadn't seen his friend since before the oil rig had exploded and thrown his whole life into upheaval once again – she had every right to be confused at his sudden reappearance.
Shying away under such acute suspicion, Peter cursed himself for being so foolish and letting this old closet lull him into a false sense of security. Emma Coolidge was still just staring at him, tearing him apart with her eyes as if she could see right through to the core of his many secrets – a feat that, at this very moment, felt like one achieved.
"Listen... I can explain." Peter started feebly, although he didn't even know where to begin. Not that it would have made a slightest bit of difference anyway.
Quiet and observant as ever, this woman was nobody's fool. "You've been very busy the past few months." She stated.
The fleeting thought to try and lie his way out came and went, because Peter didn't want to be dishonest with her. His two worlds collided as Emma, a fragment of his old life, walked right into the tornado of his present, and she was soft and gentle and radiated warmth like the hidden colours of the world that only she could see. Everything about her was familiar: from the elegant twist of her ponytail to the subtle question in the line of her brow. Peter hadn't even realised until now just how much he'd missed her.
Had it really been years since the tender hope of something had been too shy to grow between them? Back when an act as small as playing the piano together could be the most meaningful part of a relationship? It had felt like a lot at the time. But so much had happened since then. Far too much to explain, and far too much to ignore.
Accepting defeat, Peter let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "I know what it looks like. Alright? And I can't blame you if you wanna turn me in, but it's not what you think, I swear!" He insisted, bracing himself for the worst. It wasn't the worry of getting caught that upset him most: it was seeing distrust and rejection on the face of yet another of his old allies.
It stung when Emma's pleasant face twisted into a skeptical expression. Then she spoke with one eyebrow raised. "You've... not... been saving lives?"
...Wait, what? Peter was so used to the alternative that it took him far too long to process what she'd said. It wasn't until a relenting smile finally touched Emma's mouth that relief broke over his burden like the sunrise on a mountain, and his own lips tugged themselves up in stunned gratitude.
So she didn't hate him? She didn't think he was evil and corrupt and using his powers to bring the planet to its knees? It was almost unbelievable. It was also one of the nicest feelings in the world.
Peter didn't know what to say to that, or how to express his appreciation. He blushed under Emma's smile and the way she continued to look him over with that x-ray vision of hers. There weren't words to explain how much he cherished her support when the most of the world showed him none. Luckily, she didn't wait for him to speak first.
"It's good to see you." She said so simply, so honestly. She toyed with a folder in her fingers, one Peter had evidently distracted her from transporting, hovering halfway between the end of the row of shelves and him.
A pleasant feeling swaddled his chest, as if the bandages still wrapped pointlessly around his ribs were giving off heat. He'd forgotten that this woman always seemed to be good at doing that to him. The warmth only increased when Emma took half a step towards him before faltering. Moved by her nerves, Peter buried his own and met her halfway in a bashful hug that felt just as awkward as it did adorable.
He remembered when Emma had been the only kind face in his entire life. The times he had actually looked forward to doing paperwork just so he might catch her in passing at the file room. Yes, Peter's feelings for her may have changed with the passage of time and a drastic shift in perspective; and he didn't really know her and she definitely didn't know him anymore... but that didn't mean he couldn't still care about her as a friend.
"S'good to see you too." He confessed over her shoulder. He meant it even more than he thought he would.
( )( )( )
'...the river, calling for an evacuation of the entire street. Protests are still developing across the nation, some claiming authorities have lost control of the evo population...'
Riots. Yelling. Tears. Crowds of people opposing each other with contrasting morals and contrasting poster boards. There were so many of them. The chaos scrolled by in a blur from all over the world, spanning every race, gender, age and even species of human.
When footage from the East River Incident flashed up for the countless time since that morning, Hesam huffed, tore his gaze from the news, and pretended to concentrate on filling in the paperwork from his latest call. He didn't need to see that shit again. Especially when the aftermath of the casualties was still echoing around the corridors of this very hospital. Along with many others in the city.
Really though, it was difficult not to watch the wall-mounted TV above him. Even when it just droned on yet again about the death toll and the rescue missions and every and all attempts to recover from the actions of the nutjob who could move the earth with his bare hands.
'…have taken the apprehended evo into custody. No updates have been released, however, on the whereabouts of the two so-called vigilantes who were also spotted at the scene...'
On the screen, there appeared multiple recordings of two distinct figures: in the distance; running through the depths of the crevice in the road; unleashing inhuman powers upon the victims of the tradgedy; standing before the rushing crest of water like charmers before a snake...
'Police warn that the suspects are still considered extremely dangerous, and are urging anyone with any information to come forward...'
At this, Hesam truly did turn his back on the broadcast. As he had every time the reports inevitably made it to this point. He wasn't an idiot. He'd spent too many overlapping shifts on call with that determined gait and floppy hair not to recognise Peter Petrelli when he saw him.
The guy had certainly had a productive few months since he'd suddenly stopped showing up to work. Again. Without even so much as a by your leave. Again. To – what? Run around the country terrorizing the media with that moody friend of his who'd used to loiter around the hospital for the end of his shifts...? Some life.
The Iranian gripped his clipboard and set off down the corridor to write on the go – anything to avoid the incessant reminders that the man he'd once considered an ally was now one of two of the country's most wanted.
It was only out of lingering respect for his friend that he hadn't reported him already. Plus, he had a hard time believing all the stories. How many disasters were Peter and his new best buddy apparently responsible for by now? Ten? Ten hundred...? But maybe Peter wasn't the kind, understanding man he'd appeared to be all along. For one thing, he'd been hiding an entire secret life of fucking superpowers that Hesam hadn't known anything about! What else about him had been a lie?
Some days Hesam liked the idea of bumping into his former partner randomly, just to give him a piece of his mind. Today was not one of those days. Which might have been why the sight of no other than Peter Petrelli slipping past the end of the corridor ahead was such a shock.
What the hell...?
It was definitely him. Pockets bulging, hair in his face: he was attempting to slip past, unseen, with who Hesam was pretty sure was that quiet chick who sorted the files.
He stood frozen to the spot. Absently, he was aware of blocking up the corridor, but he didn't move. In fact, he did nothing at all of use – no kick up the ass, no harsh words – just gaped after a wanted fugitive as Peter ducked through a doorway to the stairwell and faded out of sight.
True enough, Hesam couldn't imagine that man deliberately hurting anyone. But he was clearly very dangerous. And he was here in the hospital, right now.
Hesam didn't want to cause him any harm, for old time's sake or not. He didn't want to cause anyone any harm – that was why he'd built his career around saving as many lives as possible! But right now, there had to be thousands of those in this building. Thousands of innocent people who could be in very real peril.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
( )( )( )
The sound of metal instruments clinking on a tray rebounded off dead tile walls. Stale air prickled the hair on Sylar's arms and the muffled silence of the place pressed in on him like breath from an invisible trespasser. It was fucking creepy in here. More reminiscent of a tomb or morgue than anything else. The working light Sylar had salvaged from down the the hall didn't make much difference, but at least it allowed him to see his ministrations with the tray he'd been slaving over for what felt like forever.
He only looked up briefly as the door clunked and groaned open, engrossed in fussing over every detail of where everything should go in order of scale and neccessity, should the need arise.
"Hey, I ran into -"
"Did you get them?" Sylar demanded, holding his hand out in Peter's direction and summoning a ball of latex gloves across the room. "Thank god. Now I can relax..." He scoffed, checking off another tick on his mental checklist.
"Yeah. Uh, anyway -"
"Wait!" Sylar carefully unfolded the gloves and laid them out neatly on the stainless steel table, in their pairs, with a back-up set nearby and the rest of the spares within reaching distance, just in case... But no! Now they messed up his previous arrangement which meant he would have to start all over again from the beginning, for fuck's sake!
It had to be perfect. It had to be precise and orgnaised. It had to be nothing at all like... the old days. Because this was an operation: a surgeon with his tools and willing patient, not in any way a rabid animal slaughtering an unsuspecting victim...
"Sylar."
"What? I'm concentrating!" He snapped, drawing himself out of the mechanical workings of sense and order and back into the smelly, run-down old operating theatre.
He glared across broken instruments and vandalised walls at Peter Petrelli, ready to rant some more...! Then choked on his words when his eyes landed, not on the man responsible for such agitation, but on a slightly apprehensive looking Emma Coolidge.
Sylar cringed. Although the deaf woman wouldn't have heard his words, she certainly would have been able to see the sharpness in the colours of his tone.
"...Emma." He greeted her too late, eyes flicking between the apologetic look on Peter's face, the placement of his hand on Emma's back, and the small distance between the pair.
( )
Peter read the many overlapping questions that tumbled over each other in Sylar's eyes, none of which were voiced. Only now did he realise how careless he'd been in not asking his friend before dragging an outsider into their shitshow.
"Peter told me what you're doing here. I want to help you." Emma thoughtfully supplied into the taut stretch of silence.
"She's gonna keep watch." Peter elaborated, trying to convey an explaination through his facial features alone. He hated that he hated that he felt bad for being excited, when his closest friend was falling apart at the same time.
Sylar just stared at the newcomers to the room, chewing on an answer that Peter half dreaded. He had already been snarky and uptight during the days it had taken him to organize everything to his standards, but Peter had let Sylar's foul mood fly because he understood the guy was only in such a state because of him. Still, the former murderer hadn't backed out on his promise to help. He hadn't put in anything less than 100% effort to iron out as many issues with the plan as he could.
But right now, he looked about as offended as he had when Peter had suggested they do the procedure at home instead of the hospital. Thankfully, though, Sylar pushed away the subsequent lecture in favor of manners for the benefit of their guest.
( )
Sylar licked his suddenly dry lips. "That's very good of you." He directed his next words at Emma also, although his eyes were on the shifty looking empath at her side. "What did Peter say exactly?"
"That you're going to fix his ability. Make him able to help more people." Emma smiled her sweet smile at him, but the usual comfort she exuded didn't pierce his armour. It stung, instead.
"I'm going to try."
Sylar didn't bother asking Peter if he'd neglected to mention Emma would be guarding blood and gore and the potential of a lifetime of horrors to be brought to the surface, because of course he had. He'd always had a soft spot for this girl, a stupid soft spot that would make him omit crucial details to spare her innocence and agree to idiotic plans just because she batted her eyes at him.
Of course Sylar couldn't refuse without sounding like an asshole. Already the feelers of guilt were pressing at him, trying to get in, because Emma was beginning to look unsure and a little upset at his hesitance. He didn't want to offend her, one of the few people left in the world who was (yes, Sylar had to admit) one of the good ones. But what was he supposed to do? Welcome her to the party of the damned with pom poms and a highschool cheer...?
Sure, allies were very hard to come by nowadays. It could be useful having a lookout in case someone happened to waltz down to this closed-off section of the old hospital on a coffee break. But it was just foolish to add another variable to the already precariously balancing pile. Not to mention unpleasant to have someone intrude upon as personal a deed as this one.
Against his better judgement, however, Sylar dipped his head in acquiescence. Peter perked up more than the bouncing ball of adrenaline he already had been, and Sylar wanted to resent the reminder that the guy's happiness was what got him into this mess in the first place. He couldn't quite get there, though.
"Let's get this over with, then."
( )
Emma watched the rush of thrill consume Peter anew, spilling colours from his lips that couldn't be more different to those entwining Sylar. He shone at her, speaking as clearly as possible so she couldn't misinterpret the dance of his lips.
"Unless you absolutely have to... uh... don't come in. No matter what you see." He flashed a small smile Emma's way, as if it could compensate for the rather ominous words themselves.
...Okay... Emma might have wanted to rescind her offer of help right then, had this been anyone else she'd teamed up with. A spooky operating theatre in the closed off part of the building? A sincere lack of enthusiasm from Sylar, tangled up in hues of fear? And now the blatant implication that someone could get hurt if things went wrong? Yep, it was definitely the smart thing to do to take off and not look back. But in her heart Emma was a doctor, one who wanted to do her best to help others, and taking risks was just part of the deal sometimes.
Peter Petrelli was still beaming at her. He looked so different than the man who had saved her from being hit by a speeding bus once upon a time, but it wasn't due to the fact that she'd rarely seen him outside his EMT's uniform, or that his hair was so long now the ends of it almost brushed his chin. Emma was only a few years older than him, but right now she was extremely aware of it in the way this young man was burdened before his time. A lifetime of watching people had left its mark on the little deaf girl who'd sat at the back of the classroom in preferred silence, and even if she couldn't literally see the shift in the shades of his voice, she'd have known so much had changed in Peter since they'd last spoken.
Even then, though, something shone as true in him as it had from the first day they'd met. Trust. And she trusted him to trust her to help him.
( )
Sylar listened to Emma bidding himself and Peter good luck, then Peter seeing her to the door with more hushed encouragements. He pretended to be absorbed in setting out a towel on the operating table, but he just couldn't get back into the same state of mind.
The door squealed shut and the empath's footsteps crossed to an old trolley behind Sylar, then the sound of him emptying the entire contents of the supply closet from his pockets echoed around the tiles.
"You two looked cosy."
"C'mon, y'know it's not like that." Peter messed with his collection of glass bottles, tinkling them together like windchimes in the distance. "She caught me upstairs, and when she asked to help I... I just couldn't disappoint her. I'm sorry, I know I didn't ask you first."
Sylar shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Take your shirt off."
He missed the look Peter threw in his direction, far too busy controlling his breathing and trying not to crumple under the impending weight of what was about to transpire any moment now. He was taking it second by second, as each one came and went and the unwavering conveyor belt of time brought him closer and closer to the thing he was most dreading.
Now that Peter was back in the room, it wasn't just a case of waiting for him to return then worrying about that part. Now that Emma was outside, someone would know if he freaked out and tried to run away. Now that Sylar had his equipment ready and Peter had his, there was nothing left to throw in their path in hopes of slowing things down.
There was no point denying it any longer: it was going to happen. Right now.
( )
Peter pulled his t-shirt over his head, setting it down with a swoop in his gut next to his discarded sling from earlier. Hopefully any stray bloodspatter wouldn't be able to reach it here. A shiver crept up his bare torso while Peter unwound the bandages from his ribs, unnecessary since his currently regenerating bones had mended themselves. He rubbed his arms to counteract goosebumps, wishing he was back in Charles' apartment instead of lurking in the mangy shadows of this room, even despite the extreme clean up that would have to happen after.
Location wasn't the most important thing, though. By far.
In the almost darkness, Peter prepared the sedative that he hoped would be most effective, his fingers clumsy on the needle and his hair unhelpfully falling in his eyes. He glanced back at the hunched form of Sylar, illuminated beneath the cone of the single working light in the place, hard at work.
His heart ached in his chest. If he was feeling so nervous and he was the one pushing this, he could only imagine how Sylar was feeling. The taste of his abilities – unleashed, unburdened, unbroken – was stirring on the very tip of his tongue, and Peter wanted it more than anything! Even though he had currently broken into his old workplace, dragged a lost friend into the perpetual danger that surrounded him, and turned the other into an overwrought wreck, he couldn't help that he hadn't felt so right about something in a long, long time.
However, it was his curse never to be single-minded. Of course such a joy was connected at the seams with Sylar's misery.
Peter could vividly recall the look on his companion's face at their reunion at the ambulances. He could still feel the embrace days later, feel wet eyelashes brushing his cheek, hear the relief in the other man's voice that hadn't been shielded or guarded in the slightest. He knew why Sylar had changed his mind to fix his ability, and he cherished it when it felt like the rest of the world didn't care at all if he lived or died.
But was it wrong of him? To let Sylar use his fear of losing him to further Peter's desires? And was it terrible that he really, truly, desperately wanted to let it come to pass anyway? Just this once?
( )
Sylar was using all his might to keep the shutters closed on his memories, to back kick everything and everyone who attempted to reach through and grab him all over again.
He could feel it stirring. Again.
The anticipation; the increase in his heartbeat until he could hardly bear it; the itch in his fingers that got so intense it began to hurt – except this time, it was all in pure revulsion. Terror. Dread. There was not one flicker of greed in his person, and Sylar knew he should have been overjoyed at that. Only, he didn't want to dwell on it and give it enough attention to try and revolt.
His hands were shaking so badly that the tray clattered while he failed to neaten the awaiting swabs and towels and bandages (just in case) for the millionth time. "Damn it!" He cursed, dangerously close to just throwing the thing clear across the room.
The whirlpool of stress only ceased in pulling him down once Peter appeared into his line of sight, directly before him, accompanied by the obligatory sense of calm that Sylar both hated and yearned for at once.
"Hey, hey, hey..." Sylar blinked his friend into focus, just in time to feel warm hands encase his wrists, holding them steady. Slightly embarrassed, he made himself look directly at Peter's face, burning under the empathy there. "We talked about this. Y'know you can still change your mind. If you don't wanna do it anymore."
The temptation was almost too sweet. For Sylar had no doubt Peter would walk away from this if he wished it. It could really be that easy, and all the pain that Sylar was fighting to keep from falling on him would ease. ...But what was heroic about that?
"No." He affirmed. "I'll do it."
Nerves were crackling along his skin like sparks of electricity, and although he needed space and air and not to be treated like a tantrum-throwing kid right now, he didn't pull free from the gentle insistence of Peter's hands. The man's head tilted up a little, those eyes spearing Sylar to the core. "But...?"
What if it goes wrong? What if I mess up...? I've already caused you so much pain, ruined everything you ever loved, I couldn't bear it if I ruined you too... Sylar couldn't say it all aloud. Instead he tried to regain as much composure as was possible, closing off his features and keeping every and all emotion out of his voice because it was easier to sound cold than sound vulnerable.
"I just don't want to hurt you."
( )
The unspoken 'again' ricochetted off the tiled walls and steel surfaces of the operating apparatus, before coming to a stop lodged in Peter's gut like a splinter of a bullet.
He got it. Of course he did. But it was an ingrained reaction in him to hate every reminder that his friend had once been the monster who killed Peter's brother in cold blood, the man who had done all those despicable things to so many innocents. However, he was also the same person who had gone to impossible lengths to keep Peter sane while in hell. Who had been there for him and cared for him when nobody else could. Who had become the only thing to keep Peter going and given him a purpose, a reason not to give up.
Yes, he had hurt Peter much more than once. But he had also rescued him too many times to count.
"Sylar," He sighed, letting go of Sylar's wrist in order to slowly stroke the back of the man's head.
The acceptance of him not pulling free like last time was enough to soothe the goosebumps that still flared on Peter's naked skin. Sylar's facade didn't fool him in the slightest. He could see right through it as if it were made of glass.
"You are not a killer anymore, and you're not a monster. I know it's scary, okay? But it's gonna be alright, I promise." He spoke with everything he had, hoping he could somehow manage to ease the concern reflected back at him on that expression through touch and words combined. "We're in this thing together, bud. You can do this. I know it."
( )
Peter's heartfelt assurance didn't assure him in the slightest. The hand in his hair was more guilt inducing than comforting, yet Sylar didn't want to be free of such a kindness he didn't feel worthy of. The smaller man had been particularly clingy since the incident with the river, and Sylar didn't doubt why. Still, he wasn't going to complain about his sacrifice being appreciated in the form of increasingly affectionate touches he didn't fully deserve, as long as no one else could see them.
This optimism infecting his friend reminded Sylar how much he wanted to repair the wound that had been inflicted upon him, and have him be happy and satisfied all the time. It was just the getting there that was the problem. But if Sylar could surprise himself by holding off a tidal wave for fuck's sake – surely he could do this! Right?
And if not... trying was still better than doing nothing at all.
Failing in his faked detatchment, Sylar closed his eyes and tried to draw strength from the heat of Peter's palms, the tickle of fingers against his scalp. He imagined it like the tingle of golden light when Peter took one of his abilities into himself, just in reverse. If something did go wrong, and either of them emerged broken on the other side, then at least Sylar wanted to take this moment with him.
He nodded although he didn't have the confidence to believe in it.
"Thank you." Peter said, for what must have been the hundredth time already. Sylar didn't need to call on Lydia's ability to feel how deep this appreciation truly ran.
Wordlessly, he let the smaller man guide him forward until their foreheads came to rest lightly against each other's, a submission from them both. He told himself he might have ducked out of such an inappropriately intimate display, if only he hadn't been in desperate need of the support that Peter desperately needed to bestow. So the pair just stayed that way, touching, breathing together, lifting each other up until they were brave enough to finally move forward.
When Peter pulled back, he was trying to hide the excitement that consumed him like a kid who had been allowed to open his Christmas presents early. Sylar wished he could share in it, or that at least it didn't hurt him as much as it did.
Before he could back out, the watchmaker swiftly got back down to business. Reluctantly, he wheeled a squeaking chair to the head of the operating table while Peter expertly set up an IV and inserted it into his own arm. He didn't even wince at the pain. Maybe it was just as well. Because if that hurt him, how could he ever fare against...?
( )
Peter went through the motions with ridiculous simplicity. He'd imagined it would've been more complicated than simply climbing onto the table, lying back and then just waiting for sleep to claim him, but it wasn't.
The slab was cold to lie on, despite the towel Sylar had kindly put down for him. Then Peter just watched the flare of the lamp above him and the ancient mold creating patterns on the ceiling beyond. His pulse thumped through his veins like a drum roll. He fought back memories of getting an x-ray as a kid after he'd fallen off his bike and bumped his head, and of a lost future when he'd looked up at a dark haired Claire with terror in his heart and restraints around his wrists.
The empath wriggled a little to get comfortable, trying his arms flat by his sides, then folded across his torso, then by his sides again. His chest was heaving even to his own eyes, and every exposed inch of his skin prickled under the spotlight and attention of the room around him.
Change was always going to be scary. It was okay to be a little afraid. Even if Peter knew he had the easy part of blacking out and waking up once everything had been done for him. He didn't even want to think too much of the in-between part.
Tension spiraled through the air as the countdown neared zero. Peter could physically feel it falling onto him like layers of snow... weighing down his limbs until he could barely be bothered to move them at all... he watched as it actually became visible to his eyes, creeping along the outside of his vision like a border blurring things at the edges...
It was worth it, though. He still couldn't believe what reality was screaming at him. Even just the thought of it... All the times he'd hit the invisible wall of potential and he wasn't allowed to be as much as he knew he could be; every instance where problems could have been solved so easily if only he could hold more than one ability; every mission when he'd had to hang back and let Sylar go on ahead because he was the strong one; even the first night he'd cried himself to sleep after his father had broken him, unable to comprehend what he'd thought had been stolen forever... finally it was all going to be remedied?
He felt the moment the sedative managed to overpower his regeneration – not enough to cancel it out, just enough to surpass it. Or so he hoped, anyway. Aware that he only had seconds left of consciousness, Peter twisted to look for Sylar, who appeared above him looking right back down. The world was hazy but the man's face was clear against the rest of it, an anchor that grounded him and kept him afloat at the same time.
"I'm right here." Those lips had stopped moving long before the sound reached Peter's ears, but when it did it soothed him. His arm was heavy, but he managed to lift it and somehow ended up linking his fingers into Sylar's, squeezing them tight.
Peter smiled woozily. "See you... when I wake up. 'Kay?" He husked, fighting the blackness until Sylar gifted him the smallest curve of his mouth in return.
The most saturated flare of fear hit him now that he was passing the point of no return. He held steady and let it scroll by. He could barely control his fingers anymore, but Sylar was still holding onto him, keeping him company as the drugs clawed him under.
"Th-thank you." Peter managed, before it was too late. The last thing he was aware of was a final blast of gratitude that warmed his very bones, and then everything floated away around him until he was suspended in nothing but the soothing silence of unconsciousness.
( )
Only when he was certain Peter was asleep, Sylar let out a long, shaking breath.
Maybe it was because he was no longer under scrutiny, or maybe because the waiting was over and the time was finally upon him, but somehow clarity rolled over him as steadily as sleep had just rolled over Peter.
Using order to cling to for guidance, Sylar took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself. Softly he slipped his fingers free from the other man's, his heart cramping in complaint. Then he positioned his chair where he'd have the best view of his patient's head, and played around with the light until he got it exactly where he wanted it. The thing creaked as it moved, sending shadows dancing across Peter's features like clouds across a pristine sky.
Sylar made sure his tray of emergency tools was closeby (checking them over quickly for the millionth time), swallowed harshly more than twice, then, tentatively, he reached out his hands. Placing his fingertips against the sleeping man's temples, he turned Peter's head gently to one side then the next, examining the best spot for entry.
It felt surreal to be doing this. It felt so different than he remembered, because he was uncomfortable and careful now instead of passionately taking the messiest route, ripping off wrapping paper to reach the prize faster. But this time he had no intentions of destroying any part of the parcel: not the precious inner core, nor a single hair upon his head.
Wishing he wasn't learning from experience, Sylar forewent the gloves he'd specifically demanded and sank his fingers into the silky smooth locks of Peter Petrelli's hair. He didn't delay in his ministrations, just stroked the dark strands off their owner's face and up, gathering them from the sides and the back while being careful not to tug a single one.
It was just another stage in this mechanism of the operation. They all were. The next one would be too, and it could be over with as quickly and painlessly as this one. Sylar narrated his work in his mind, trying to fool himself that it was just like any of his time pieces that had a gear jammed and needed unstuck. No big deal. And not at all like pinning someone to a wall in order to enduce more terror before killing them slowly...
Once he had created a neat guideline through Peter's hair to follow without giving him an impromptu haircut like last time, there was no further excuse to hesitate more. Sylar didn't bother to invent one. Instead, he fumbled with a pair of disposable gloves, his fingers suddenly unable to follow simple commands, then sat there pinging the cuff and trying not to be sick while he debated over how best to begin.
It was better to get right to it rather and linger and put it off for longer. Right? Plus, who knew how long the drugs would work before regeneration roused Peter (not a nice thought), and the sooner Sylar got to work the sooner he would know if this was it for him. …Or for them both...
The former villain looked down sorrowfully upon his only friend. So peaceful. Serene. Trusting. It surprised him to find it was responsibility that smacked him in the gut harder than terror.
It would be so easy to cheat. Sylar could sit here, do fuck all and let Peter wake, say sorry, he tried his best and it didn't work... but he would never do that. What kind of cretin would he be then, after the unwavering belief this man was showing in him to do right? Peter needed him to do this – he trusted him to. And Sylar had promised he would.
No. He had to go through with it. He had to be brave just like he had when the East River had crashed down on him with insatiable force, even though this was far more frightening than that had been. The fear of dying once again was nothing compared to the fear of destroying what he had right now with Peter. He could lose him. Everything they'd built, every hour they'd struggled through together...
No matter what happened here; if Peter got his powers or if Sylar reverted, or both or nothing at all, everything would be different.
No matter what, this was the last moment they would be just like this.
It would never be the same again.
Suddenly overcome, Sylar lightly, ever so gently, placed his hands on the sides of Peter's face. Feeling daring, and perhaps just because nobody could see him do it, he leaned down and touched his lips to Peter's forehead. It was just a small thing. Just a token to say sorry. Just private, secret, his. It was also the first action Sylar had been truly sure about for days.
His lips trembled slightly as he pulled back, blinking rapidly and shaking himself into the right frame of mind to continue with something so crucial. Then before he could change his mind, he made the first incision directly in the centre of his kiss.
A wave of pure horror rolled through him.
Then the first drop of blood welled up like a deep red ruby against pale skin, and instinct took over. It had been so long since Sylar had done this, yet his hands remembered exactly what to do. They held steady as soon as it mattered, allowing him to trace a perfect path through the skull of his only friend, working impressively even when Sylar couldn't make sense of much past a protective veil of disbelief.
He could see the blurry shape of his dearest friend lying on the operating table, and it was far too much to process. Rivulets of blood sparkled in the lamplight, shone crimson as they oozed from the wound that Sylar was inflicting upon this sleeping body. He didn't dare draw breath in case the aroma enticed the shark within him, he didn't blink in case it brought everything into clear focus, and although the room was spinning in slow motion and his own voice was screaming in his ears to stop, he didn't. Because he was doing it for Peter.
An ancient Hunger preyed on the back of Sylar's mind, conspicuously vacant like the shadowy entrance of a monster's cave. He couldn't turn his back on it, for then surely the beast would pounce and devour him whole. It scared him to the core, but this trusting man below him had helped Sylar conquer it before, and helped him stay strong now.
Unable to tear his eyes away, the former killer watched the telekinetic blade slice through his only companion, his hero: the messiest eater Sylar had ever known, the guy who blushed under praise and smiled when you weren't looking and hated the sound of his own laugh... With every tug of flesh and bone that tried to resist him, Sylar despised himself more.
How could anyone have ever done this so many times that they'd eventually grown numb to it?! Yet he had. Somehow, long ago, he had. It had been easy to disconnect from the truth, eventually. To barely even acknowledge it at all, because these people were irrelevant and it didn't matter that they had names and loved ones and hopes and dreams that he was draining from their veins –
Suddenly all venemous reflections ground to a halt, everything zeroed back in with vivid detail, and terror bubbled up inside like a volcano. Because Sylar was now just holding Peter's severed skull in place by his hand.
Jesus. Fuck. He shamelessly hesitated, his heart racing and hidden senses unfurling themselves from the darkest corners of Sylar's being. He knew perfectly well that every part of him was aware of what he'd just done, every part was alive and watching and eager and waiting... but it didn't feel good. It felt disgusting. It should have been a blessing, but Sylar couldn't thank the heavens that he was entirely present in the moment, and that he had to process the full horror of his actions without a scrap of protection or ignorance to numb it.
Heaving in air through his nose, he triple-checked Peter's bare chest was still rising and falling, then couldn't help but eye the dark wetness that swiped across his forehead like a single brushstroke, pooled in a puddle below his head and dyed the towel, the table, Peter's hair, neck and shoulders...
Forgive me.
Sylar couldn't believe what he was actually doing – which might have made it easier because it was so insane that it couldn't possibly process. He was so terrified that he couldn't even think to stop anymore. He was so beyond appalled that his whole body was running on autopilot without him. Nauseated, he watched his own hands work before Peter could heal, and gingerly pull away the top of the man's head.
Holy shit.
For a long second Sylar could only stare, transfixed by the wrongness of intruding upon Peter's tender, exposed cerebrum in all its glory. Air hit the organ for the very first time, a baby forced out of its shell when it wasn't ready, when it couldn't protest or consent or defend itself in the slightest –
Sylar's breath escaped him in a shudder before he could stop it. He set down the loose part of Peter's skull (Peter's skull!) on the tray beside him where it would be safe, before stumbling free from his squeaking chair and staggering into the wall.
He doubled over, absolutely expecting to throw up. But it wasn't the contents of his stomach that escaped him.
Of every reaction Sylar The Soulless Devil had feared he'd experience the next time he revealed a brain, crying had never come to mind. Yet now his eyes burned and streamed and he could barely catch a breath, moaning and sobbing in soul-rendering, painful bursts that consumed his muscles as if he really were vomiting. Sylar leaned all his weight into dirty, cool tiles, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow to try and muffle the sounds he was making. Still, they rebounded around this decrepit pit of a room.
Weak with remorse for everything he'd ever done, every person he'd ever murdered in this manner, no way could Sylar return to his post. Not yet. Definitely not yet. Instead he just slumped here, hiding, alone in the dark with his face in his sleeve and nothing but a living nightmare to keep him company.
He had just destroyed his only friend. Ripped him open, defiled his body and made him bleed once again. He'd ruined him like everyone else who'd dared get too close to the monster. Everyone else who'd mattered.
No. Focus. Focus. He needs you. It's the right thing to do. It is...! But only if it's done right...
Sylar's breath was ragged, punctured only with little gasps of effort as he tried to pull himself together. His lungs ached with contractions and he could barely see past hot tears that coursed down his face in rivers, but that didn't seem to matter when it came to processing the ghastly sight that he had made of the once handsome man laid out before him.
He worked hard to remind himself this was different than the other times. Because Peter had repeatedly asked for this torture. Over and over, in his words, in his face, in his touch and even the way he moved. He hadn't listened to reason, because reason was a word that had never existed in his psyche. He hadn't backed down, because Peter didn't know the concept of giving up a cause that simply screamed insanity. Insanity for himself, and insanity for the sucker who had been lumped into it with him.
The only reason Sylar stayed, the only reason he didn't make a run for it instead of suffering through this trauma? Was that he cared too much. Despite it all, he cared too much about this fucking selfish fucking stupid son of a bitch who just so happened to deserve his help.
( )
Nobody had come looking. The corridor was as dark and empty and eerie as always, which Emma supposed must be a good thing, even if it didn't really feel like it.
She wondered what was taking so long. Maybe she should have asked how Sylar had intended to fix Peter's abilities? It wasn't like anyone upstairs would notice she was missing or anything, but standing out here by herself was not the nicest task Emma had undertaken in her life.
Still, she stuck to her post, pacing on the spot slightly and crossing her arms tight against the chill and darkess. Darkness that, she suddenly noticed, had been broken by a flare that hadn't been there a second ago.
Emma jolted and rushed to the door she was guarding, before recalling Peter's warning. Don't come in no matter what. So what else could she do but just stand there, watching glowing tendrils of colour squeeze through the edge of the door like ribbons, before they filtered into the corridor like smoke.
Hypnotized, it wasn't the design of the sounds that upset her, but that they existed at all. The way they danced, the rhythm to the change in colours that bled through the air like a mournful song... Emma hadn't worked in a hospital for almost a year with this power without getting to know the hues of someone crying. Silently, she observed the noises weep, suffer, curl in on themselves for comfort which they didn't receive...
And suddenly she felt horribly like she was intruding. She didn't want to know what was happening in there. She could guess, but chose not to. She wanted to go in and make sure everything was okay – maybe she could help if it wasn't? But Peter had said not to and she didn't want to betray his trust.
Did he know this would happen then? Was it supposed to happen? Emma had no clue, so she chose just to trust her old friend and the kindness in his eyes, and tried to ignore the sounds floating in the air. It was impossible though, when they eclipsed everything else in the surrounding blackness.
( )
The damage was worse than he had pictured it.
Going by touch alone, the knot Arthur Petrelli had jammed in the way of Peter's abilities had felt bigger than it actually was. But now that he could see the thing as well as feel for it, Sylar discovered also that it was far more intricate than he had first deduced. The man-made mental barrier in the mind of his patient was wedged tightly in place, scarred over on both sides by the many times the guy had clawed at it while attempting to break through. Oh, Peter...
Shifting in his chair, Sylar had already lost track of time. He sniffed and cleared his throat not for the first time, wiping at his slowing flow of tears in order to focus better on his work. He used his sleeve this time, having learned the hard way that his gloves were coated in red as if he'd just painted a setting sun with his hands. Peter's blood (sadly not a foreign substance) was hot on his skin, dripping down his forearms and pooling in Sylar's rolled up sleeves, despite his best efforts. He had stopped noticing long ago in favour of the task at hand.
He squirmed in his seat and resumed his work, leaning in close and working with the thinnest fibers of telekinesis he could muster. The heat and texture of the brain at his fingertips wasn't dulled at all by the addition of gloves, and a fresh crest of repulsion rolled through him again.
At least everything about this act couldn't have been more different to how Sylar remembered it being in the past. The victim's screams fading out; the sticky, warm blood coating his hands a mere irritation; hunger and excitement and curiosity and desperation fueling him on to eagerly steal abilities and discard the person afterward...
The contrast was so stark that this almost felt like Sylar's first time all over again. Everything was new although he had done it so many times before he'd lost count.
Which meant he had no excuse to hold back when he knew exactly how to put the shattered walls of his friend back together. To help him, heal him, rid him of the pain that Sylar could feel had stained far outside its realms like a festering bruise that hadn't faded in all these years.
Sylar was careful with him. He caressed the disfigured site of the empath's pain with the lightness of touch that came from tending to irreplaceable mechanisms all his life. Because this didn't have to be that different from a one-of-a-kind antique wristwatch, really. He didn't rush, but was gentle as he unlaced delicate ribbons of scar tissue with enviable grace. He treated his friend's cerebrum with more respect than the dozens he'd tended to over his lifetime combined.
How many times had Sylar wished to get a good look inside the infuriatingly unpredictable mind of Peter Petrelli? To see how he worked and what made him the way that he was? He regretted such thoughts now, of course.
Stealing a power was so much easier than teasing them free from restraints, Sylar had quickly discovered. Abilities had always just been waiting for him in the past, ripe for the picking and easy to access once the top of the skull was removed. But here (because of course it had to be difficult when Peter was involved), Sylar was being resisted with a stubbornness the Petrellis would be proud of, if they knew.
The challenge helped him, though. He clung to it – literally – chasing the prize with so much concentration that he didn't have time to step back and see the full picture: where he was, what he was doing, who's skull he currently had both hands inside.
He never stopped working. He never got impatient. He never gave in and started ripping his way through the barrier instead, because this was precious and crucial and if Gabriel Gray had ever been good at one thing in his life, it was understanding how things worked and then speaking their language. And so that's what he did.
He whispered to the problem, earned its trust and crooned back remedies and encouragements in hopes of making things better. He sang the silent song that nobody would ever hear, working tirelessly to complete everything within his power to repair Peter's wound at long last. To set him free.
...Almost... so close... just a little more... there.
Finally, Sylar paused. He gasped. Then just blinked at his handiwork, suddenly taken off guard to realise there was nothing left for him to do. That was it? He'd finished? Was it really possible he'd just liberated his friend and survived the entire procedure without losing his mind in blood and brains and greed for power...?
The first touch of elation lifted the corners of Sylar's lips, shy and unsure at first, as he triple checked all was done as need be. Peter would be so pleased with him. He ripped off the soiled gloves and grabbed himself a towel with shaking hands, wiping streaks in the blood on his arms before carefully reattaching the top of the sleeping man's head. He watched the incision in Peter's skin begin to knit itself back together, then jumped to his feet and hurried to remove the drip from his patient's arm.
While Peter roused, Sylar took a moment for himself. Just a handful of seconds to get a handle on his racing heart and bask in the ringing lack of his downfall.
He almost didn't want to believe it yet, because it seemed far too good to be true. Far too easy. All that worrying had been for nothing?! What the hell? Where were the ghosts and demons that should appear to drag him back into the shadows; the angry mob with their pitchforks and damning words; or even his worst fears personified in the form of his own sneering reflection...?
Gone. All gone.
( )
Peter didn't want to wake up. He was comfortable here. He tried to resist the sounds that pierced his protective bubble, and the dizzying lurch that accompanied the shake to his shoulders, but once consciousness had him in its clutches it was impossible to get free.
He squirmed, moaning in complaint. Fluttered his eyelids against the blinding bright light that stabbed him in the corneas. Then someone's head shielded him from it: a man. A familiar man. He was beaming down upon Peter for some reason, one that evaded him for too long as he tried to chase it around his memories.
Large hands slipped from his shoulders to hold his back, and Peter let them pull him up until he was leaning on his elbow. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he tried to filter everything through the clearing fog and into focus.
( )
"Wh-wha...?" Peter mumbled, acting as if he'd just been roused from a hundred year nap. Sylar just barely managed not to laugh at the childish expression on his face. He couldn't wait to see it change...
"I said I think I did it!" It must have been the fifth or sixth time he'd said those words, but only now did they seem to finally settle in Peter's head. The man squinted around himself at his sordid surroundings, as if surprised to see he wasn't being greeted by fluffy pillows and the beautiful blush of sunrise. And then recollection clonked into place in those big hazel eyes, and it was the most wondrous sight to witness.
"You did...?" He gasped, seemingly beyond caring about the blood that covered a good portion of his head and shoulders, because this was so much more important than that.
Pride swelled up inside Sylar at the same time a smile of delight spread across the features of the other man, one that made the whole ordeal of messing inside his brain worth it. Peter lifted his hand to muffle a laugh, gazing over it at Sylar as if he'd just solved the meaning of all life on Earth. And y'know what? Sylar wasn't going to correct him.
"Try something!" He prompted, relenting to a mighty grin of his own.
He watched his companion intently, scooping up every precious facet of this experience to remember it perfectly later. Because this was his achievement as well as Peter's. It was the perfect 'fuck you' to everyone who ever said he couldn't do it and wasn't capable of reforming. It was Sylar's big moment to stand atop the mighty mountain of his doubts, built so high over a lifetime of sins that he could touch the clouds if he wanted, and be able to look right down the height of the thing with the confidence to know he'd conquered it. For he had just faced his biggest fear and lived to tell the tale.
It hadn't been holding off the East River for the world to see, or saving Emma back at the Sullivan Brothers carnival that had done it – or even finally clawing his way through the wall of his eight year prison! No. It was this, right here, when the last rusted chains keeping Sylar tethered to his past self broke free.
( )
Still a little drowsy, numb with hope, Peter struggled to sit up. He chose to ignore the sickening feeling of blood dripping down his spine. It barely registered compared to the boundless rush of adrenaline that flooded his system, making him clumsy in his movements.
He swung his legs off the side of the table and swept his hair back out of his eyes. Had Sylar really just...? How could something so huge have transpired in the seconds it felt between falling asleep and waking again? It was ridiculous!
Yet... Peter was sure he could feel that something was different inside him.
Even before he lifted both hands up before his face, he thought he could sense the fresh streak of colour that coursed through his veins now that a channel had been opened. He could practically taste it, the potential that flowed through his every nerve ending to his fingertips, prickling the hairs on his arms on the way as it built and built on the way to freedom! He held his breath and waited to see it come true right before his eyes... but nothing happened.
...No... Peter glanced up at Sylar, who just gave him a smiling nod of encouragement.
But what if he couldn't do it? What if Peter had been the problem all along? What if he was broken forever, and he'd just put his friend through his worst nightmare for nothing...? Sorrow and regret threatened to drown out the wonderful tingle of the new feeling, but Peter clung on stubbornly to the confidence that Sylar was pouring down upon him.
Taking a few deep breaths, he honed in his concentration once more. He closed his eyes and let his body take over, let his guards slip from his shoulders and pool around his ankles while willing something to happen, letting things proceed as they wanted without forcing it back into hiding...
His eyes snapped open at the exact same time both men exclaimed aloud. Then they stared, transfixed, at the blue fire that now encased Peter's left hand. Holy fuck.
Stunned, the empath rejoiced in the velveteen lure of his power, twisting his hand and toying with indigo flames, letting them lick over his fingers with a warmth that stemmed right from the core of his being. He laughed again, drawing courage from the joy in Sylar's smile and eyes: two flickering drops of saphirre blue that reached right back into him.
It came naturally after that. Lost for words, Peter stretched out his right hand next, biting his lip in effort. It only took a second for him to reconsider the channel of energy, and he extinguished the flames in his other hand in order to summon a towel from Sylar's neat pile of them. Ha!
"Oh my g... D-did you see that?!" He gushed stupidly, distractedly wiping blood from his neck and shoulders.
Sylar didn't reply, his smile only deepening as his eyes roved over Peter from head to toe. The motion tickled, as if he were somehow able to track the transformation that rushed around Peter like a tornado, getting stronger with every beat of his heart. It was all coming back to him in phases. First the simple fact of it, then the true epiphany, then the symptoms lagging along in last place. Peter was just a helpless vessel being decorated from within, tidied at the edges and welded back together over the patches that had tried their best to do the job for so long.
He revelled in seeing the world through its new filter: when every detail was that little bit sharper, when every shine shone a little bit brighter. He looked around himself in wonder, as if a blindfold he hadn't even known he'd been wearing for years had been lifted and he could finally see again; he'd forgotten that the spectrum hadn't always been so dull, but now that he had been gifted with the colours he'd used to take for granted he recognised them at once; the sensation of his past swam through his entire soul like the scent of a lost relative's cooking, casting him back in time to when things had been simpler, when he had been younger, when he had been different.
Tears rose, unbidden and unshed, in Peter's eyes. He couldn't dream of tackling the sudden swarm of emotion that took him hostage, so he didn't even bother. The change within him was spinning so fast that it was difficult to catch all at once, but he supposed there was plenty of time for that later. He had the rest of forever to work this thing out, after all!
As for right now? His throat constricted when he really looked at Sylar for the first time since waking. Now, he really saw the drying blood stains on his arms, the fading tear tracks on his face. Peter couldn't imagine what this person had just gone through for him, simply because he'd asked him to.
"You... you fixed me." He croaked, cut so deep with gratitide he couldn't even find his voice.
( )
The recovering villain suddenly didn't even know what to do with himself. He could only watch as things he had never noticed before clicked into place within Peter, as his skin flushed pink and his face illuminated with the same euphoria as it had when he'd first thrown himself off a building in hopes he could fly.
Sylar had only met the man a few times before his abilities had been broken. He hadn't known him enough to really notice the difference at the time but it was unmistakable now, in all the right ways. And Sylar was responsible for that.
Peter gifted him the biggest smile he'd seen on that face in months. "Thank you!" He whispered. Before Sylar could muster up a gracious reply, the little man dropped the towel down beside him, hopped off the operating table and practically scooped him up off the floor with both arms.
"Hey!" Sylar squeaked out an undignified giggle that instantly made him cringe, but not for too long. Peter laughed again in the crook of Sylar's neck, without one shade of his usual self-consciousness, and that sold him.
Despite the blood still dripping from Peter's hair and down his indecently bare skin, Sylar put two hands on the man's back and held him in close. He was okay. They were both okay. Peter was no longer being dissected, and Sylar was no longer the one doing the dissecting. He couldn't believe he'd actually just done that. Had it even happened at all? How could it seem so long ago already...?
"Thank you! Thank you! God, I don't even know what else to say!" Peter confessed, wrapped around Sylar so tightly they swayed on the spot.
Blushing like an idiot, Sylar was quite pleased that at least the other guy couldn't see his face right now. "You could start by promising to wash a dish every once in a while." He supplied to a fresh few hiccups of mirth.
For the first time since the ambulances, Sylar allowed himself to relax in Peter's touch. He'd felt so unworthy of it the past few days. But he didn't feel that way anymore. Not now he'd carried both himself and this extremely grateful, touchy-feely creature through the eye of the storm and out the other side.
( )
Peter could feel every one of his old abilities safe and sound in their place, tucked away as if nothing had ever changed since the last time he'd used them. It was impossible, yet it was real. And now he had the freedom to do whatever the fuck he liked with them! He felt like a kid who'd just uncovered a trunk of his old favourite toys, desperate to get stuck in and familiarise himself with them all over again, even stay up all night playing if he wanted to!
The only problem was deciding on what to do first. Go for an invisible stroll down the street? Fly all over the city with regenerating stamina, then teleport home after?! There were so many possibilities to choose from, and Peter couldn't get his mind around any of them!
He wasn't surprised that it had worked, per se, because he'd absolutely had faith in his friend to live up to his word and beyond. It was just difficult to process the very vivid realisation that, yes, really, finally... Peter had been put right. Thanks to Sylar.
He pulled back with both hands trembling on the taller man's shoulders. "I knew you could do it." He couldn't stop touching his friend or stop smiling for the life of him, even though concern was definitely present in his mind. He was pretty sure it was floating around in there somewhere. "How did it go? Are you okay?"
For a second Sylar avoided Peter's eye contact. Then he composed himself, oh-so-casually running a hand through his hair. Then wincing at the blood on it. "Fine. It was boring. You have a nice brain but I'm not gonna lie, it's not the most advanced I've ever seen."
The hint of pink around his eyes told a different story to the unaffected air he was trying to exude, but it was one Peter wasn't going to pry into if Sylar didn't want him to. At the very least, after everything the man had just done for him, Peter owed him that.
So he just took the guy's (now apparently deemed contaminated) hand and nestled into his arms again. Peter held his friend close, putting everything that he couldn't express through words into the gesture. He didn't care that Sylar was generally not a cuddly person, or that he might be sick of Peter's many recent affections. He needed to give them anyway.
Sylar hugged him back, through a touch of shyness that was tangible in the angles of his body. Peter's cheeks were beginning to hurt from all this smiling, but it was hardly worth complaining about. "Thank you. Really. I mean it."
It was obscene to think that this was the first time in Peter's whole life that he could remember someone actually helping him with something he personally wanted for himself. He was so used to being brushed off, or promised then forgotten about, that he had no idea how to handle the alternative. If this wasn't what he was supposed to do then Peter didn't even care, because it felt right enough for him.
( )
"Are you planning on keeping me here all evening? Or can we finally leave this place?"
Sylar blatantly shrugged off the heaps of praise Peter was raining down upon him. He didn't know how to deal with the way it made him feel – it was different than when he'd agreed to help Emma and the Carnival once upon a time, different even than all the times he'd helped Peter help other people. Because this didn't involve anyone else but the two of them.
Chuckling, the empath unlatched himself from the taller man, devouring his face with those eyes of his. "Sorry. You're right. Let's get outta here." He paused again though, just long enough to cup the side of Sylar's neck in his palm. One last, lingering thank you that burned its way into Sylar's skin.
"You're such a sap, Petrelli." He scoffed and pulled free, turning his back with a smile. The mess of the operation wasn't going to clean itself, after all, and if he stayed where he was there was the danger of Sylar turning into an even bigger sap than the other guy.
"Yeah, don't I know it." Peter chuckled, picking up his discarded, bloodstained towel as if it could do any more good than it already hadn't.
( )
Peter cleaned himself up as best he could, while Sylar undertook the gruesome task of mopping up what Peter felt was a shit ton of his blood. They righted the place as much as possible, having no running water, only a limited supply of towels and one crappy lightbulb to see by. Peter had to admit that Sylar had been right in demanding they didn't do this back at the apartment. It was not pleasant. But they couldn't very well invite Emma back in here when it looked like the site of a massacre, after all, and the sooner they got finished the sooner they could head home.
No, not home! Out into the city to test these not-really-new-but-still-new powers! Peter was buzzing already, so excited he was actually getting light headed. He couldn't possibly wait until later and so touched over his abilities repeatedly, unable to stop worrying them like a loose tooth, checking to see each one was still where it should be.
Lost in the sensations, Peter recovered his t-shirt from the trolley (thankfully void of any red stains), and pulled it on. Head buried in the fabric, he startled when Sylar hissed something inarticulate in his ear.
( )
"What?"
"What?" Sylar responded, straightening with a packed medical bag full of obscene looking towels that the world had better hope it never saw. He draped the bag over his shoulder and turned to see Peter's tousled head pop out the top of his t-shirt, followed by a wary look.
"Did... didn't you just?" He looked around the room, righting his clothing with one hand and pointing to his ear with the other. Sylar had no clue what that meant.
"Did I just what? Earn myself a lifetime of bragging rights? You'd better believe it –"
"Shh!" Peter rudely cut him off by putting a finger to his lips. "Can't you hear that?" He whispered, eyes casting wildly around the dark recesses of the theatre. Great. As if the place wasn't spooky enough as it was.
"What is it?" He asked, dropping the restricting weight of the bag back onto the floor – the world could take its chances with it after all.
But then the newly-restored empath froze, staring directly at the door back into the corridor. Suddenly Sylar could sense static electricity in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago. And for a split second he thought he saw his friend flicker in and out of sight, before a rogue burst of sparks crackled over his skin.
Only then did he realise that something was very wrong.
"Voices."
All at once Sylar was very aware of Peter's abilities flexing awake from their shared slumber, like a restless swarm of birds rustling their wings all at once. The man turned frightened eyes back to Sylar, just as his short-lived sense of fulfillment melted out of his grasp, leaving only a cold sweat in its wake.
"They've found us."
A/N: Thanks again for reading my story, and for your patience - I can never say it enough! I'm sooo excited for this next chunk of plot to kick off, and I can't wait to share it with you guys! Brace yourselves for more action, more angst, and a lot of emotions in the near future... X) Originally I wanted to fit the events of this chapter and next chapter into one, so you could read it all at once, but to nobody's surprise the story just got away from me hehe ^.^
Sylar working in Peter's brain was a scene I've had planned for longer than the idea for the whole story (it's also in the trailer), and it was very important to me to recreate the scene on the page as I've had it in my mind for so long. I guess all I can do is try my best and hope it worked, huh? Please let me know what you thought X)
